The Other Half of Me
by whowhatsitwhich
Summary: He owed her so much; more than he felt capable of expressing but the sight of her fighting back tears almost did him in. Before he realized what he was about, he found himself cupping her cheek and then drawing her to her feet, her name a plea on his lips.


L'altra metà di me (The Other Half of Me)

 _"The most precious light is the one that visits you in your darkest hour!" ― Mehmet Murat ildan_

Molly Hooper unlocked the front door of her flat and slipped inside, exhaustion settling on her like a millstone. She allowed herself to collapse; sliding down the wall until she sat slumped on the floor with her head in her hands. The time since his fall had been the longest of her life. All she could do was keep moving forward, knowing that sooner or later, it would all come to an end. What end exactly she couldn't say. There was so much left up to chance no matter how many contingencies were planned for but one thing was always overlooked.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

The fall was only the beginning, setting a chain of events into motion that had only one acceptable ending…the perceived death of Sherlock Holmes. Her linchpin role was to stay in the background, choreographing an intricate sleight of hand. John was integral to the success of their scheme. He had to be convinced otherwise Moriarty's network would be alerted before the true game began. It was essential that he not see through their ruse. Sherlock and Mycroft both insisted upon that point. Those closest to Sherlock, John most of all, had to believe. So…Molly played her part without fail.

Those who knew her best watched with sympathetic eyes as the body was brought in. Mike Stamford tried to divert Molly from being the one to perform Sherlock's post mortem, insisting that it would be too difficult for her with all things considered. He looked a bit shell-shocked when she stood her ground.

 _"The others wouldn't work with him when he was alive. They didn't trust him or understand what he was about. Why would I trust them to see to him now? Don't ask me to do that."_

 _xoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo_

The funeral service followed soon after…a small, intimate affair of necessity…and occurring a bit more quickly than the usual. Molly dressed with care, staring in the mirror until she was satisfied that her expression gave nothing away. She folded her coat over her arm and then made her way into the sitting room where her temporary flat mate studied her with solemn eyes.

"I'll get another taxi," he announced after rising to his feet to help her on with her wrap. "Wouldn't do for us to be seen and give it all away."

"Another taxi? You cannot mean to say that you're going to attend your own funeral!" Her owl eyed look underscored her scandalized tone. "Sherlock, that's impossible! It's unthinkable even for you."

"Even for me," He drawled. "Molly, don't lecture. It's really not necessary."

"You insufferable bastard!" She pushed into his space, her finger jabbing him painfully in the chest. "Your friends are mourning you. They're heartbroken. Have you no care for what they're suffering?"

"I care that Moriarty's network might have someone there to make sure the deed is done," Sherlock declared. "I care that the sooner this is begun, the sooner it's finished." His gaze swept over her once more. "You don't look that cut up to me."

Tears welled even as her fists clenched at her sides in an effort to keep from smacking his face, the arrogant sod. Instead, she forced herself to stay on topic. "Mycroft will have people about watching for that very thing. It's madness to consider going yourself. Please stop it. Stay here. Stay here where it's safe."

"Don't be absurd. It'll be…" He trailed off at the sight of her…dark doe eyes in a parchment pale face and her lips making a taut line. "You can't think I'd let myself be caught out. Molly, I'll be fine."

"Please, stay here. For me."

It was hard to say who was more shocked when he nodded his assent.

 _xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo_

She heard footsteps come down the hall and wood creaked as someone sat down beside her and put an arm about her shoulders. The sound of his deep, dark baritone was like a balm to her even as it rubbed her nerves raw. The role she'd been playing weighed upon her the longer it went on.

"Tonight is it then. Mycroft said he'd text with the details."

Molly nodded and then dropped her chin into her chest to keep her face hidden. "I know," she confided. "He sent the same to me." Gesturing to a package on the table, she continued, "He had that dropped off at Bart's earlier; said you'd need it."

"Ah yes. Leave it to my dear brother to handle even the smallest details." He removed his arm and rested his elbows on his knees, deftly avoiding the elephant in the room. "Toby will be pleased to have you to himself again."

Chuckling, she mimicked his pose. "Don't be so sure. He might not show it but he likes you. I can see it."

"Really? I would never have guessed."

"The two of you have been in the same room without incident this last week. That's a big improvement from those first few days surely."

Sherlock well remembered how the feline skirted around him, wary and cautious when he settled into Molly's flat. Hisses and a well-aimed swat ended the first and only attempt to make a closer acquaintance. "Even so, you'll be grateful to have your home to yourself, get back into your routine. I never meant to take advantage of your hospitality this long."

"It's no bother. I mean, I don't mind. It's okay."

The return of her stutter gave away her discomfort, quite the last thing he wanted. She was one of the main reasons that his plan had come together so neatly. Even Mycroft agreed that she'd performed admirably under the circumstances. He owed her so much; more than he felt capable of expressing but the sight of her fighting back tears almost did him in. Before he realized what he was about, he found himself cupping her cheek and then drawing her to her feet, her name a plea on his lips. "Molly Hooper."

"I just wanted to help," she whispered. "You needed someone and I could…"

"You could and you did."

"But once you're gone, it'll be done, won't it? You can't let me know that you're alright or where you are or what you're doing." He shook his head regretfully and then brushed away the fresh fall of tears that wet her cheeks. "Promise me, Sherlock. Promise that you'll be as careful as you can. I couldn't bear it if…"

"I promise." It was futile and foolish but he said the words, knowing that she needed to hear them. She was too intelligent to put much faith in them but it was all he could offer.

"And I'll keep an eye on the others," she volunteered. "John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

"I'm glad. In that case, I won't have to worry."

What she meant to say next would never be known because he bent and kissed her forehead and then on both cheeks. Pulling back slightly, he looked into her upturned face, noting her closed eyes and parted lips. "Molly Hooper," he repeated softly, tenderly. He never meant to kiss her but found himself covering her mouth with his. Her arms went round his neck; his around her waist. The kiss said everything left to say between them…his affection, her love, his thanks, her fears and his, I'll come back, come back to me.

Her feet left the floor as he picked her up and made his way through the flat until he nudged the door of her bedroom open with his foot. Lowering her to the bed, he lay down beside her and reclaimed her lips. Bittersweet and sweetly, they came together in a tangle of limbs and hesitant caresses. His cold reason and her blind devotion were put aside in the wake of their unintended passion. Maybe it wouldn't have happened if circumstances were different but time was short and they couldn't pretend that this wasn't what they both wanted.

After, she rested her head over his heart and let the soothing rhythm lull her to sleep. He'd already drifted off, one hand splayed on the small of her back and the other on the pillow above his head. Molly studied him, memorizing every line of his face…beautiful in repose, all cares washed away. She savored his nearness, his warmth, the way his angles fit to her curves. Each detail was carefully filed away so that she would have that much of him when he left.

xoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Simultaneous chimes from their mobiles woke them just after 2am. The light leaking through the curtains made thin, silvery puddles on the floor. Sherlock stretched out a wayward hand and brought his phone up, blinking and squinting until he made out the words. "There'll be a car waiting in the alley out back at four." He replaced the phone on the table and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"You'll need the package from the lounge," Molly murmured hoarsely. "It's got clothes and travel documents and a secure phone. Mycroft said everything else you'd need would be with the car. Your recognition code is Redbeard." She felt him go tense beside her and lifted up on elbow so that she could see his face. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's nothing. Can you retrieve it for me? I'd like a quick shower before I go."

"Of course." She got up and draped the top sheet about her before going to do as he asked, hearing him making his way to the bathroom behind her. Only when she was safely out of his sight did she allow herself the luxury of breaking down. Their time together had only made the inevitable parting harder to take. He would go and she would have to let him go. They'd said nothing during those incredible hours that couldn't be taken back. She left the package at the foot of the bed and exchanged the sheet for her robe before going to make tea. It gave her something with which to occupy her hands if not her mind.

By the time he came out, she had two steaming cups on the table and a plate of nibbles set out. "Do eat something," she prompted. "You don't know when you'll have another chance and you won't be at your best if you're hungry." A slight smile tugged at her lips when he actually fell to, scarfing down biscuits and washing them down with quick swallows of tea. He looked very different from Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. His unruly curls were slicked straight back, uncharacteristically tamed. A dark t-shirt and darker jeans completed the transformation along with a pair of well-worn leather boots.

"How does it look?"

She didn't require clarification, having already guessed that he would ask that question at the earliest opportunity. "Quiet with hardly any traffic. The fog is quite thick, more so toward the river. That's to our favor. As Mycroft said, the car will be in the alley out back…a silver Mercedes. The driver is one of his most trusted agents. He'll take you to a safe house and you'll get the details of the next leg of your trip there."

"Molly, I…"

"I know," she cut him off, holding up a staying hand. "We've said what needed saying already, Sherlock. Best leave it at that." She gestured to a ragged backpack and a neatly folded jacket. "I have the rest of your things there. You wouldn't want to be late."

Subdued, he finished off the remainder of his food and the last of the tea. A glance at the clock ticking away the minutes on the wall confirmed his suspicions that they were perilously short on time. He looked up to find her holding his jacket, a tremulous smile wobbling on her lips. Sherlock ignored the unfamiliar tightness in his chest as he allowed her to help him on with his coat. He glanced at the closet where his Belstaff hung and then shook his head. It was too distinctive. He might as well wear a sign as wear that.

As if she'd read his mind, she spoke up. "I'll keep it here until you're gone along with the rest of your things. Anthea will be by to pick them up." She didn't say until you need them again but the words hung in the air between them nonetheless. She handed him his pack and worried the belt of her robe as he slipped the strap over his shoulder. Behind her, the clock chimed the hour…four short carillons before falling silent. That was it then.

"I won't say goodbye," he told her, wearing that familiar one-sided smile with his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Be well, Molly Hooper. Be safe."

"See you soon," she returned softly, mustering a smile even though inside she felt her heart crack open. The world shifted when he took her hand and lifted it to his mouth, gently kissed her knuckles and squeezed her fingers before letting go. She closed her eyes until the latch clicking signaled that he'd gone. Only then did she allow herself to cry.

His boots hardly made a sound as he slipped down the back stairs and out into the night. The world was grey draped black, dotted here and there with the dim halos of streetlights. Two turns and he entered the alley where a car only a shade darker than the fog sat idling. A pale specter detached itself from the darkness and came forward, hands thrust into pockets and hat brim pulled low. "Redbeard," Sherlock called softly and let out a breath when the man echoed him. He climbed into the back of the Mercedes and fell into an inventory of his most recent memories. Some, he deleted while others were carefully consigned to his Mind Palace. Those precious few hours with Molly…he filed away in the corner she'd claimed for her own behind every protection he could muster. He couldn't let himself be distracted; nor would he let them go. Here, he could give them sway but as soon as he reached the safe house, they'd have to be put aside until Moriarty's network had been dealt with.

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 _Two months later..._

Life after Sherlock Holmes' death much resembled life before it in the broad strokes for Molly Hooper. She got up. She went to work. She went to pub with friends on weekends and had weekly visits for tea with Mrs. Hudson. John Watson entered into a practice at a nearby surgery. Molly found occasion to get him out several times but he'd begun passing the time with Mary Morstan, a nurse who also worked there. He'd begun to smile again rather than the haggard expression he'd worn like a shroud.

The flat at 221B Baker Street had yet to be let out. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't hear of it and Mycroft made sure that the rent was paid up. The biggest change was the concerted effort made by the elder brother Holmes to stay in touch with Molly. She didn't flatter herself that Sherlock had told him to do so. Rather, she reasoned that being in possession of the knowledge that his brother was indeed alive made Mycroft keep a cautious eye on her. How better to know if she'd slipped up and let the cat out of the bag.

That secret was one that she'd take to her grave but it pained her to keep it. Watching others that loved him deal with the grief of losing him and not being able to assuage it ate at her. When John got that lost and vacant look in his eyes, she ached. When Mrs. Hudson excused herself to daub at suddenly damp eyes, Molly swallowed the lump in her throat and said nothing. When Lestrade came by the morgue asking after the findings for his latest case and avoided looking at Sherlock's favorite microscope, she wanted to crawl into a hole and bury her head. She chalked up her recent bout of illness to the strain she'd been under trying to act as if nothing had changed.

She was exhausted, worn and frayed at the edges despite getting a full night's sleep. Morning brought with it headaches and a roiling stomach, aided only by weak tea and biscuits. Mrs. Hudson deplored how threadbare Molly looked, threatening to move her into Baker Street so that she could feed her up. Molly put her off by swearing to see John at the earliest opportunity for a tonic. She even talked of going away on holiday to the sea for a bit, anything to divert the fretful woman.

It wasn't until she studied her desk calendar for possible dates for that holiday that the thought occurred to her that there might be another explanation for her illness. A swift count on her fingers added even more weight to her sudden suspicion. It couldn't be, could it? She did the only thing she could think of…she waited until the morgue was deserted and performed the blood test herself. When the confirmation came, she stared at it for a full half-hour before giving in to the torrent of laughter threating to overtake her. Blind panic mixed and mingled with transcendent joy. She was going to be a mother. A baby. Sherlock Holmes' baby. Molly had to cover her mouth to stifle the outburst. If anyone heard her, they'd think her mad. If she wasn't careful, she'd believe it herself.

Xoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

When the summons to the Diogenes Club came a week later; Molly had little reason to believe her secret belonged solely to her any longer. Her acceptance was a foregone conclusion but if Mycroft Holmes thought he could order her life to suit his agenda, he was going to be disappointed.

*to be continued*


End file.
